


Aftercare

by Dusty_Forgotten (DustyForgotten)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Body Modification, F/F, Gen, Genital Piercing, M/M, Piercings, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyForgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: Hux runs a tattoo shop, and Kylo is his heavily modded sub. Kylo doesn't have any say in the mods he gets, it is totally up to Hux to decide how he wants to mark his possession.





	Aftercare

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt.](https://dustyforgotten.tumblr.com/post/148053706907/body-mod-au-a-harder-kink-version-of-saint)
> 
> I suggest lots of Depeche Mode.

The walls are grey, for that edgy, sex-dungeon look, but the windows making up the left wall keep it from claustrophobic. They also stripe sunrays directly into the eyes of anyone on the waiting room sofa.

Kylo’s become a bit of an architectural staple around the piercing shop, escorting his cousin in for every new addition in the chain of studs running up the shell of her ear. Of course, Rey got her license suspended (because she’s a terror behind the wheel) and Kylo gets the enviable job of driving her from dental appointments to lunch dates. At least she chips in for gas.

She could, however, stand to speed along the hour-long process of picking out what she wants to go  _ in _ the hole she’s about to get. The piercer doesn’t seem to mind; she’s tall and blonde and muscular enough even Kylo would think twice before clocking her, and she sucks one of her lip rings into her mouth whenever Rey’s too busy peering into glass display cases to notice.

Rey makes an overdue decision, and Phasma puts a hand on the small of her back as she leads her into the piercing room. Kylo— with his half-inch gauges and the scar he cut into his eyebrow with a crafting knife at sixteen— appraises his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and thinks if someone should wallflower, at least he matches the decor.

The man who steps into Kylo’s line of sight definitely doesn’t.

His head mercifully blocks the sun that was searing into Kylo’s retinas, striking his red hair in a golden halo, and for a moment, Kylo thinks he must be hallucinating from boredom. Then the man draws the curtains, and when Kylo blinks his eyes to adjustment, he’s surprised to find he’s not actually alone in the room.

“Do you need something?” he asks from behind the counter of glass display cases; he seems so out of place, a step above business casual without a body mod on him.

Kylo curses himself for not needing anything, so he flounders some topic. “You don’t look like a piercer.”  _ Smooth, Solo. _

“That’s because I’m the owner.” Kylo feels simultaneously impressed  _ and _ stupid. “And just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean I don’t have piercings.”

It’s reflexive— he can’t help it— Kylo is glancing to the crotch of the man’s slacks before he can stop himself. When his gaze flicks back up, light eyes are looking directly at him, and he’s smiling. Redhead sticks out his tongue, catching the silver bar on his teeth. 

Kylo directs his line of sight to the posted safety protocol, and wishes for death.

There’s a smile in his voice when the man says, “I’ll let you guess where the other one is.”

It’s comical, how quickly Kylo’s head turns, eyes wide, but he’s already disappeared into the office.

Kylo loiters instead in the tattoo parlour downstairs, and thinks about the anatomical heart he’s always wanted on his deltoid.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The next time Rey ropes him into a trip to First Order Ink, Kylo meets Mitaka, a tattoo artist with amazingly steady hands for how jumpy he is, and a portfolio of museum-quality masterpieces. They do lines in one sitting, shading in another, and Kylo decides to get that heart coloured a while later.

At some point taking Rey to First Order went from an obligation to a tradition, because they’re still there every month, even though Rey got her license back and they take turns driving (and Kylo has to close his eyes and pray whenever it’s hers). Kylo has that heart on his sleeve, something his grandfather said wrapping his bicep underneath, and a blackout half-sleeve with a design in negative space— when Rey starts trying to convince him to get his lip pierced.

“All through high school, you swore you’d get a labret as soon as you turned eighteen,” Rey reminds as she counts the cash and a flirtatiously generous tip.

“I grew out of it.” Kylo shrugs. Usually his appointments run longer than Rey’s, but today was just a consultation about a chest piece he’d been dreaming up.

“I think you’d look good with a labret,” the owner cuts in as he comes out of the office, stunning and immaculate as always, sealed stack of envelopes in hand.

Eloquently, Kylo responds, “You do?”

Rey looks over her shoulder at him, skeptically; Phasma takes the opportunity to admire her breasts. The owner puts the mail on the back counter. “I do. You’ve got great lips, might as well draw some attention to them.”

Kylo considers for all of four seconds before nodding vigorously. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Hux, could you take him?” Phasma entreats. “I need to check Rey out.”  _ Sure _ she does.

“Fine,” the redhead, Hux apparent, assents, ushering Kylo through the door Rey recently emerged from.

The room seems unnecessarily large for the single dentist-style chair— red walls, black cabinets, no windows: it’s teenage gothic, and Kylo absolutely adores it.

“Have a seat,” Hux says (and Kylo’s thoughts are currently a constant mantra of  _ Hux Hux Hux _ ) as he gathers supplies from the cabinets. He portions mouthwash into a paper cup, which he presents to Kylo, and goes about rolling up the sleeves of his overly formal shirt.

From his wrists to his elbows, extending under the rolled fabric, is a grid pattern, dots at every intersection, which thicker lines connect in seemingly abstract patterns— until his second sleeve reveals much of the same, and Kylo swears he’s seen the pattern before, in the sky on the camping trips his father used to take him on. He spits the mouthwash back into the cup before he comments, “Is that Draco?”

Hux ( _ Hux, Hux _ ) follows Kylo’s gaze, and blinks, as if he’s forgotten his own ink. Like he’s surprised anyone else remembered. “Hydra. You were close.” He turns to the sink, pumps soap into his hand. Kylo wonders how many constellations are hiding under vest and tie. Hux takes the paper cup with a paper towel, and disposes of them both before he pulls a pair of black latex gloves up to the lines on his wrists, and he’s speaking before Kylo can ask. “Have you eaten in the last six hours?”

“Yeah.” There’s a sandwich shop just up the street where he and Rey always buffer their blood sugar before coming in.

“Are you drunk, high, or otherwise impaired?”

Kylo shakes his head, biting his lip— to get it out of the way while Hux runs an alcohol wipe over his chin, of course— not because he’s so close Kylo can feel his breath and smell his cologne and Hux is staring at his lips.

He marks just below the vermilion border, and points out a hand mirror on a side table. “Take a look at that.”

Kylo takes the mirror, appraises the dot in the shadow of his lip, with no idea what he’s looking for. He nods, eagerly. “Perfect.”

Hux doesn’t say anything as he takes the clamps from a tray on the same table Kylo returns the mirror to. They don’t chat, joke like he hears Rey and Phasma doing, and Kylo’s not sure how to feel about it. Maybe that’s just Hux and his impeccable professionalism. Maybe it’s awkward. He’s never been a good judge of that.

The open end of the clamp frames the mark, and Hux flips his lip inside and out about a dozen times before he picks up the needle and does it a half-dozen more. His head’s cocked when blue eyes meet Kylo’s. “Ready?”

The nod would be imperceptible if Hux weren’t in intimate contact with his face. He holds eye contact a little too long before instructing, “Slow inhale.”

He obeys, naturally.

“Exhale.” Immediately, he’s pushing the needle through. It’s over too quick, and before he can appreciate the pain there’s a snipping sound, Hux reaching for the table, and then the needle’s out again, and Hux is screwing the top on. The gloves come off, the mirror is in Kylo’s hand again, and there’s a speck of silver below his lip.

He thinks it’s not nearly enough.

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Kylo has the good fortune to come in for a downsize on the labret just as a pair of teenagers are picking out belly button jewellry, so Phasma deals with them while Hux waves him back. He was just looking to shorten the stud now that the swelling has passed, but then Hux proposes, “With that scar in your eyebrow, you might consider piercing the other. Symmetry and all.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kylo slurs, trying to speak without moving his lips, “I think I’ll do that.”

Hux had just clasped the jewel in the jaws of a pair of forceps and hooked the gloved fingers of his other hand inside Kylo’s lower lip to hold the back of the stud when he pauses. Lifts his upper lip with the end of the forceps. “You know, we just got some CBRs in that match this post. You’ve got enough web for a smiley piercing.”

“You’re the expert.”

If Kylo had his eyes open, he’d see Hux smirking. “At that rate, might as well do a lorum.”

“Okay.”

“Do you even know what a lorum piercing is?”

Finally, Kylo cracks his eyes. “No?”

Hux in his black vest, white shirt— thank God he’s not wearing a tie today because that flicker of his chest has to be the most skin Kylo’s ever seen on him— cocks his head and stares at Kylo, assessing. “If I got out a needle, right now, would you even ask what I was going to do with it?”

Upper lip between his teeth, Kylo shakes his head. Hux hooks his fingers under the stud and swiftly screws on the gem. He drops the forceps on the tray with the old bar, and walks it to the counter by the sink, pulling one glove over the other and dropping them in the pedal trash bin. Kylo sits up, and Hux doesn’t turn from sorting the materials to admonish, “Sit down, I’m not through with you.”

Heart in his throat (and inked on his arm), Kylo lays back, and closes his eyes, hoping to calm his pulse. Hears water running, hands scrubbing, paper towel, pedal trash bin. Nitrile gloves. Approaching footsteps.

His face twitches when the alcohol wipes his brow. “Have you eaten in the last six hours?”

“Yes.”

Fingers pinch his eyebrow in a few different places before he clamps it. “Are you drunk, high, or otherwise impaired?”

“No.”

Lightly, the point of the needle touches Kylo’s skin. “Should I mark you up however I like?”

Kylo barely sees the glint of the forceps, latex of the gloves, but Hux is there, looming over him, blocking the overhead lamp, and it still rings him in gold. “Yes.”

The needle punches through: doesn’t hurt as much as the lip, and he scarcely felt that. Hux reaches for scissors on the side table, and Kylo has to blink into the light. Again, (always,) it’s over too fast, and seeing himself in the mirror, Kylo thinks Hux has better taste in these things than he ever will.

“Feeling dizzy, lightheaded, what-have-you?”

Kylo sets the mirror aside; Hux is leaned against the far counter. “I’m fine.”

Hux doesn’t move but to blink and breathe. Kylo counts the rhythm, four-seven-eight: same as the one his old counselor taught him for anger control. Hux swallows, says, “That door doesn’t lock.”

Kylo glances at it, perfunctorily. “Okay?”

Breathing four-seven-eight, Hux shrugs. “Thought I’d mention.”

Phasma knocks moments later, needs the room for a client. Hux offers to take them— either because he’s already there, or he wants to be away from Kylo, or maybe he’s just unusually magnanimous today, who knows? When Kylo goes to pay, Phasma won’t take anything but cost of jewellry and tip. Something about covering Hux’s ass.   
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Mitaka is almost finished shading Kylo’s name across his knuckles when he’s interrupted.

“Kylo  _ Rent? _ ”

At least Hux waited until he was wiping, because Mitaka knocks over his ink and nearly drops the gun. “Hux!” Surprise gives way to cautious curiosity. “What are you doing here?”

Before he can respond, Kylo’s clarifying, “ _ Ren. _ It’s a dagger.”

“It looks like a T.”

Mitaka chuckles in a way that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He busies himself with the spilt ink.

“I still like it,” Kylo says with a shrug.

“You really should consult with me before you get anything else done.” Hux says it offhand, but Kylo feels himself pulling at the labret stud as he nods. “Good.” He frowns at  _ Kylo RenT _ again. “What does that even mean?”

Kylo frowns from the eyes. “It’s my name.”

One hand up on the doorjamb, cuff rucking up, Kylo can just see the beginnings of the grid on Hux’s wrist. “Not according to your paperwork.”

He looks back at Mitaka, scrubbing the tile floor with a paper towel more vigorously than is probably necessary. “… Not yet, at least.”

“I see,” Hux acknowledges, more casual than he has any right to be. “I spare you the rent boy joke only for Mitaka’s sake.”

Mitaka’s nervous laughter is heard in First Order Ink as often as Depeche Mode and the buzz of tattoo guns.

“And clean that eyebrow more often,” Hux directs before heading back up to the piercing studio, “it’s looking irritated.”

It’s moments before Mitaka breaks the silence, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him on this floor.” He takes Kylo’s hand, and his gun. “Which is weird, because it’s the  _ ground _ floor.”

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The unfortunate thing about Rey and Phasma dating is that now when she tries to convince Kylo to get something else pierced, she’s got backup. Rey wants matching industrials, to commemorate the year they actually got along before she heads back to England for the summer. Phasma’s got a list of things she  _ has _ to do while she’s there, so it’s easy enough to distract them just by bringing it up. Kylo’s trying to figure out what this song is: he’s heard it a dozen times, but never knew the name. It’s probably Depeche Mode.

They’re all just stalling until Hux gets off the phone.

Halfway into the tale of how Phasma fistfought a constable, Hux emerges from his office. He very nearly smiles when he sees Kylo, but his face fixes into dismay almost as fast. “What happened to your eyebrow?”

Kylo had been prepared for the possibility, of course; surface piercings aren’t known for their resilience. He’d cleaned it painstakingly, stared at the ceiling with a Dixie cup of salt water solution pressed to his eyebrow, and more of the bar was pushed from his skin every day. “It was rejecting, so I took it out.”

“And you didn’t think to ask me— your  _ piercer— _ before you made that decision?”

To his left, Kylo’s cousin gapes at him. She looks at Hux like she’s going to say something, but Phasma touches her hand, shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, Hux—”

“You  _ will _ be.”

The only sound in the studio is someone singing about  _ your own personal Jesus— _ oh, that’s the name! Brusquely, Hux rounds the counter and retreats to the piercing room— though it’s more of an advance, because of course, Kylo follows. Rey grits her teeth, but doesn’t say anything as the door shuts behind them.

Hux is already scrubbing in, so Kylo takes the only seat in the room. It’s too long before anyone speaks.

“Have you eaten in the last six hours?”

“Yes.”

“Are you drunk, high, or otherwise impaired?”

“No.”

“Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you?”

Hux dries his hands, disposes the paper towel. Kylo bites his labret. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.”

Hux reaches for the gloves, but Kylo spots the ghost of a smile as he does. He walks the tray over, sets it on the side table, then takes a pair of tweezers, and what looks like a barbell, shaped like a staple. “This is a surface bar. It’s difficult to insert because of the angles, which also makes it more difficult to  _ reject. _ ” Kylo nods, and Hux sets the jewellry aside. “Take your shirt off.”

Kylo hesitates for a second or two, and then he’s tugging his T-shirt over his head. Hux tears open a prep pad, and pauses when he looks at Kylo’s bare torso. His expression doesn’t change, but his jaw shifts a little forward— and then he’s wiping down his upper chest, and pressing a ruler to his collarbones.

Hux has such a singular focus when he’s working; Kylo feels simultaneously delighted at the attention and objectified. When Kylo’s in the chair, he’s not a person: he’s a canvas. That’s all he is, to Hux, he imagines.

Hux dips a toothpick in tattoo ink, marks out six dots symmetrical, following the lines of his collarbones. Tells Kylo to roll his shoulders, rubs off two of the marks and moves them an imperceptible fraction. Shoulders back, forward, lift your arms above your head. It takes twenty minutes, but Hux is more careful with Kylo’s body than he’s ever been with himself. Or anyone.

He steps back, sterile hands away from himself and toothpick pinched in one. There are no clamps, and no needle— just the instrument resembling a shortened pen in Hux’s hand. He presses it to Kylo’s chest, just below the collarbone, and this close, Kylo can hear the tongue bar click as he takes it between his teeth. He’s expecting Hux to say something— explain why he’s angry, rub Kylo’s nose in his failures— but, as always, he works silently.

Kylo hisses a gasp as the implement bites into his skin: a twisting, sharp pain. There’s a cold sting when he’s done, and then a blunt, but intense sort of pain that has Kylo biting off a curse through his gritted teeth.

Forceps clang to the metal tray, and then damp gauze is soothing the wound. Kylo tries to quiet his harsh breathing, four-seven-eight.

“There’s a problem with surface bars, though,” Hux continues, like he’d never stopped. “Piercings reject, surface piercings especially often, and there’s precious little to be done about it.” Hux glances up at him, just from under his lashes, because what he’s doing is too important to turn his head from. “I don’t blame you for that.”

The gauze goes, and there’s another twisting pain inches to the left. “This is closer to an implant than a piercing, really, but that’s a can of worms the health board and I don’t want to get into.” Hux takes a pair of tweezers from the tray, and that’s about when Kylo closes his eyes. “The base it too wide to fully reject, and you can hardly tear them out, once the tissue grows through.” As he wrestles one in, he frustratedly comments, “Stubborn things.”

Kylo releases his breath as the saline soothes it over. Hux lifts the gauze, and assures, “Four more.” Silence again, as he carves out flesh and affixes the next two anchors.

Saline is soaking the wound when the sound of metal to teeth grabs Kylo’s attention.”I’ve seen the scars from doctors that tried to remove them, sliced it out, and a chunk of flesh to boot,” Hux casts offhanded, when he discards the saline wipe, takes up the… well, drill, is the most accurate term, and lines it up. “Good piercer can get one out and leave a scar only as large as the biopsy punch it went in with.”

Kylo looks for his eyes, and finds only lashes, downcast on what he’s doing. If he wants them gone, he’s got to come back. He lets his neck rest, the muscles around his collarbone relax. His breath stutters as Hux leans close to his chest so he can line up the angle properly, and murmurs, “Understood.”

He doesn’t say anything until he’s done, legs crossed and resting his chin on the knuckle of a glove, surveying his handiwork— though they make eye contact before he agrees, “Perfect.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

They get the industrials: all four of them put it to a vote, and in the end, Hux was against him. Called his anatomy “ideal,” with a sweep of his eyes from ear to toe.

Kylo drives, because after this stop to have the bars downsized, Rey’s got a flight to catch. Phasma works quick, so they have time for lengthy goodbyes while Kylo slouches on the sofa. He can’t see the sunset because the curtains are closed, and he hadn’t intended to fall asleep to eighties industrial, but he also hadn’t thought he’d be up all night gushing about relationships with his cousin.

The sting of fingertips on his cheek makes him jump, but the sight of Hux has some kind of Pavlovian calm to Kylo now. “You eaten in the last six hours?”

He contemplates how the grid on his forearm, clutching Kylo’s shoulder, runs parallel to the stripes on his tie. “No…”

“Neither have I.”

There’s a sandwich shop across the street, and the cashier seems thrilled to finally have a face to pair with Hux’s regular order. His wrist gleams with a glossy new constellation that he must have caught Kylo staring at, because he says, “Scorpio.”

“I’m a scorpio.”

He smirks, taking the tray to the table where two women share a soda, “I know.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Hux’s desk is clean, shelves for the tablets where clients run credit cards, sign consent waivers, USB connections to the laptop where he fills out tax forms and tracks inventory, his cell phone on speaker, locked in a debate with Mark or Mike or whatever that keeps sending anodized when he ordered mirror-finish. It’s dark out, but the computer screen lights his features in a cool-tone glow; he threads his hand through Kylo’s hair, idly twirls locks about his fingers. Insatiable as he is in back seats, men’s rooms, and even the alley behind First Order, even a peck on the cheek inside the building infuriates him. Cross-contamination, and all.

Sometimes, on late nights in the tiny office, crammed between a filing cabinet and ergonomic desk chair just to be close, Kylo can get away with sucking his fingers— only in disposable gloves, and only after the tongue splitting. It’s a cool party trick, sure, but the best part is how the gap rolls over the barbell in Hux’s tongue.

It may be dawn by the time he hangs up, but that’s the other side of the building. Hux hooks his finger in the chain that runs tight around Kylo’s throat (made by the girl that does custom jewellry for the shop, and it fits his aesthetic) and tugs just a pinch as he stands, leads the way back to the studio.

There’s no light in the stairwell, no background music, no words passed between them: just the sounds movement makes, and sunrise in the east.

Pleather squeaks as he takes a seat, autoclave clicks awake. They shared leftovers around three hours back, he doesn’t drink unless Hux gives it to him, and nitrile gloves skimming his skin is an eager expectation. Kylo’s running out of real estate— he was scared this would have to stop, one day— that he would be exactly as Hux wanted him, and that would be the end. Hux said they could always take the jewellry out, and start over. Play piercings; just needles and droplets of blood they leave behind. He’s thinking of practicing scarification, and guess who volunteered?

Kylo’s never cared how he looks, so much as how people look at him. He really liked that tattoo convention they attended not too long ago; gauze still packed in his mouth, silently modelling all his piercer’s work to any other professionals interested. He started with a body, and now he’s art.

Hux unbuckles torn jeans, bundles them up at his ankles (because people tend to thrash during this sort of thing). The A/C is chilling for just the two of them in a building alone, but the medical lubricant and Hux’s hand warm up rather quickly. He’s got quite the dirty mouth, especially in places they shouldn’t be, but if he owns the place, who’s going to tell him no? Certainly not Kylo. He always works in silence.

He can hear the fan kick off, the slick sound of a hasty handjob, the way his breathing falls apart. Very abruptly, he pulls off, dips a toothpick in Venetian Blue. Extensive deliberation, marks made and replaced, star charts on his wrists (and now he knows, fading away at his hips where large, tattooed hands so often settle), hands that stop just shy of enough.

“Have you thought of a genital piercing before?” Since he certainly is now.

Even with a cock in his hand, he comes off so clean cut. “When I saw yours.”

He’s returned with a slight smile, same as whenever his expertise is acknowledged. “This is quite a bit more painful than a Prince Albert.”

Hux laces his fingers gracefully, and waits for the erection to wilt. “Have you heard from Rey?”

“She’s doing great. She wants to be some kind of tech for medical tests. Said that neck pillow she got to keep her piercings off the mattress saved her life on that plane.”

“I imagine so.” He gets up, goes for the sink. “Glad to hear it.”

It’s a very practiced process Hux has never once slacked on. Handwashing, paper towels, gloves, tools and jewellry straight from the autoclave. He walks it back over, straddles his thighs in a manner extremely unprofessional, but undeniably practical. He was told there would be kicking, and even his best effort won’t entirely stop it.

Clamps press the glans almost flat, checks his marks a few dozen times. Kylo doesn’t know why; every piercing in his portfolio is perfect. Maybe that’s why.

Such a common routine between them; Kylo’s eyes are closed, one hand holding his other wrist, ready for the endorphins he’s so addicted to: but there’s a break of pattern.

There, with a large-gauge needle prepared to pierce the head of his penis, Hux waits. Perfectly still, staring on. “You’ll be mine after this.”

Hoarsely, “… I already am.”

“Breathe in.”

Deep and smooth. Easy as… well. Breathing.

“Out.”

He bites down on his split tongue, so he doesn’t crack his teeth on the labret; Hux warned him about that once already. It’s a good thing First Order is closed— no one wants to hear screaming in a tattoo parlour— but there’s no other way he can think of to process the pain of having a needle vertically jammed through the tip of your penis.

There’s a hand covering his own pair, the man admitting, “Kylo, I have a confession.”

No other time but genitally impaled would he be so receptive to the idea.

“I’m very selfish.”  _ Yeah. _ “All of this, it’s all been for me.”  _ I hope. _ “This,” he touches the lip stud, the one his teeth sometimes tug when their lips partially unlock, “these,” the implants accentuating his collarbone that fingertips lightly trace on their way either up or down, “of course this,” the gap in his tongue, two halves stroking either side of the finger that points it out, like they do other things, “and yes, this.” The bar he threads through a swelling piercing, the apadravya often called most painful piercing to receive, the most pleasurable to use. A ball screws to either end, a challenge overcome.

Drips of saline loosening blood as it appears, a hand in nitrile holds him firmly, Hux tempts him with the information, “Unfortunately, it’ll be about a year of healing before we get to try it out.”


End file.
